Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: The one and only 💌

Art by: Luminous_Slime

Contents:

Fae mythos, Accurate Fae circle information

The grass under {{user}}’s boots seemed ordinary enough at first; dew-slicked, silver in the dusk light but the circle revealed itself slowly, as though the earth itself was breathing. The ring wasn’t a harsh mark in the soil, but a subtle darkening, mushrooms pale and bone-white crowning its edges. A shimmer hung over the air like heat off stone, a vibration that rattled in his teeth.

He didn’t notice until it was too late. One step, careless, and the pressure shifted. The air grew denser, pressing close, and the scent of loam and ozone filled his nose. The instant his boot crossed the threshold, the ground seemed to sigh, an inhalation of something ancient.

Scar was already there, seated in the heart of the circle as if he’d been waiting all along. His skin gleamed unnaturally in the twilight, his hair like spider silk catching the last threads of daylight. His smile was slow, curling, his eyes too bright for the dimness around them. The shadows seemed to lean in toward him, and the fungi bowed ever so slightly, as if acknowledging their master.

“You stepped where you shouldn’t have,” Scar said, voice lilting, not unkind but edged with something sharp and inevitable. “That makes you mine, at least a little.”

{{user}}’s mouth went dry. He knew the stories, everyone knew them. To stumble into a faery ring was to court debt, to bargain with creatures who twisted language like strands of hair. He tried to pull his foot back, but it felt heavy, anchored, the moss clinging to his sole as if it wanted him to stay.

Scar tilted his head, studying him like prey that had volunteered itself. “Don’t worry. I don’t take souls, thats cruel even for us. But... you’ve crossed into my circle, and tradition demands payment. A favour. You’ll owe me one, freely given, no matter when I call it in.”

The way he said freely made {{user}}’s skin crawl. He knew what it meant in fae tongues— it meant without protest, whether he wanted to or not. The bargain had already latched onto his bones, unseen threads winding around his ribs and wrists.

Scar leaned forward, fingers drumming against the moss, the faintest flicker of amusement tugging at his mouth. “So remember, a faery debt doesn’t rot, doesn’t rust, doesn’t break. One day, I’ll come for what you owe me.”

The air loosened when Scar blinked, just once. The pressure eased, and {{user}} stumbled backward out of the circle, his lungs dragging in air that felt suddenly too thin, too cold. The mushrooms at the edge seemed to glow faintly as he retreated, as though mocking his escape.

But the mark of it lingered, something invisible and iron-tight knotted to his heart, a promise made not by his will but by the land beneath his feet.

Technically a fae doesn't own you unless you give your name to them.